Kenneth stood rigid, his face still scarlet, his rage still holding him, “You turned it on her, you poisoning cad,” he yelled, as the doctor vanished through the door. Then he seemed suddenly to regain control and added in a low voice, “My God, what have I done?”
Allport sprang to his side and dragged him down into his chair. “You had better sit down there, my friend,” he said, and then, turning to me, he asked me to go and see if the doctor wanted any help.
I ran along to the consulting-room to find Ethel flat on her back on the couch, and The Tundish bending over her. “Ah, thanks, Jeffcock,” he said as I came up to them, “I want a little help.”
I fetched him basin and water and cotton wool, and he was soon at work with his deft and steady fingers. There was something bordering on the unnatural in his unruffled calm. It was not only that he was undisturbed, but it was the idea he gave of hidden reserves that impressed me so much. Nothing, I felt, in heaven or earth, natural or supernatural, could move this quiet, pleasant man, and as I watched him tenderly at work, I remembered the fearful danger he was in. I pictured him actually on the scaffold—the rope about his neck—the hangman ready to pull the fatal bolt and drop him to God alone knows where. My fancy even led me to the length of wondering how he would stand. With folded arms and bended head? No, too melodramatic that. Smoking a cigarette perhaps? No again, that would savor too much of braggadocio. Finally I decided that he would in all probability be blowing his nose.
I suppose that my little flight of ghoulish fancy can not have lasted for more than a second or so, but he looked up at me amused, almost as though he had guessed whither my thoughts had wandered. “Come, Jeffcock, you had better go back and tell them there isn’t very much amiss. They will be anxious, you know. A badly cut lip, and a couple of loosened teeth are the extent of the damage.”
He was sitting on the edge of the couch, and as I closed the door behind me, I heard Ethel whisper softly, “Oh, Tundish dear, what a rock you are. What should I do without you?”
Was it my fancy? Had my hearing for once played me false? Or did he really reply, “Well, why should you, Ethel darling?”
Chapter VII.
I Argue with Kenneth
Up to this point in my story, while, as was only natural, I had some doubts about The Tundish, he certainly had all my sympathy. If Ethel was his most outspoken champion, I was more than ready to endorse her opinions. While she showed by every possible action and by every look that she was sure of his innocence, desolated by his awful plight, and ready to take his part against those of our party who were less inclined to ignore the evidence against him, I was less demonstrative and I think more tolerant of the opinions held by Kenneth and, to a less degree, by Margaret and Ralph. But I was quite eager to feel as sure as she was about his innocence. I was ready to set down the finding of the key in his coat pocket, his unsatisfactory account of his dealings with Stella’s father, and all the other evidence that indicated his guilt so strongly, as nothing more than a string of coincidences, mere unfortunate accidents of circumstances, that time and patience would be sure to explain away.
Indeed, when I look back, I am always astonished at the way the doctor dominated our little party. He made no effort to clear himself—he accepted all the damning facts that told so heavily against him, without either attempting to belittle or explain them away—and then he simply ignored the whole uncomfortable position. Kenneth and Ethel quarreled openly, Margaret, Ralph and I were worried and ill at ease; he, in danger of immediate arrest and the end of his medical career, alone remained calm and undisturbed.